


The Point Of A Triangle

by Britpacker



Series: Human Sacrifice [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:09:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Late one night Malcolm wanders into the observation lounge to find his superiors in a mildly compromising situation.  Things take an unexpected turn from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
> **Author's notes:** I'm trying something a bit "different" here...  
>  Both chapters are multiple POV; the first parts are titled, the rest initialled. I hope that makes sense!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm can't sleep. It transpires he's not the only one.

Malcolm:

I love walking around Enterprise late at night. Beyond the inevitable sections of bridge, armoury and engineering she feels deserted; as if, in the low light, I'm the only living being on her decks. It'd give some people what Commander Tucker so eloquently calls _the heebie-jeebies_. For me, it's soothing.

There's so much _noise_ on a starship. So many people who think the louder they shout, the better they'll be understood. I love my job, and this crew is so much more than a burden I have to protect. Still: sometimes I wish they'd all just, for a minute at a time, shut up.

I think it's what drew me to T'Pol all those years ago, when I was deluded enough to think her attractive. The silence. The stillness. The ability to make a point with a look rather than a fifty thousand word dissertation. Last week the two of us worked on adjusting the sensors to detect a Tambai ion trail for three hours without speaking a word beyond the necessary. She's a long way off being my favourite person aboard, but still. It was comforting. No effort.

As they usually do my feet have brought me up to the observation lounge. Before the door slides open I know it's in darkness - Starfleet are no better than your average house builder at making doors actually fit - and the confidence that gives me is enough to propel me forward. I'm inside the room before their shadowy reflections in the viewport display the enormity of my mistake. There are two figures on the couch.

Oh, shit.

"Hell, that smile." That's my commanding officer's voice. It's his image, blurred at the edges, reflecting in the window. Without his shirt.

That's on the floor beside another man's: and that gaudy object could belong to only one person. I know his identity even before that lazy, luscious drawl seeps across the room.

"That _voice_." Commander Tucker stretches his long legs - they're wide apart and it doesn't take Vulcan logic to judge why. Not with that whopper sprouting between his thighs. "Sonofabitch! He's got no fuckin' idea."

That's not his hand in his crotch. 

It's his best friend's. And I don't want to look at what Commander Tucker's hand is. They're gay? Lovers? 

I'm too stunned to compute what I'm seeing. I can't move, but I know I should. Oh God I'm intruding on something private - secret. I've got to get out of here.

Jonathan:

He's here. I knew he'd come soon. My Chief Tactical Officer isn't the only strategist on Enterprise.

Maybe I heard the door's soft hiss but something more elemental identifies him without the need to turn around. There's a change in the air when he's in the room; it warms and thickens, the elements combining like sugar and hot water. I'm breathing caramel. It's sticky and sweet and I feel as if I'm drowning in it. Move slowly Jonathan; eyes to the viewport. Dear God, he even makes open-mouthed disbelief look good!

Trip hasn't noticed. He's never especially observant when his dick's halfway up and the warm feelings being uncurled through his body make the room around him hazy. "That's attractive," I agree, keeping my eyes on the window. "He's almost... innocent."

"Yeah." The hand in my crotch twitches. "Kind of weird, really. You think he's so tough, and all the time there's that..."

If he'd done it on purpose I'd call that subtle - by Tucker standards. Malcolm's shrewd. He must guess now we're drooling over him.

Yes. He stumbles as he backs toward the door; catches one foot against the other and staggers, crashing into the bulkhead. That's one way to announce yourself, with a great whooshing sound forced up past his ribs as he slams backward into unyielding metal. Ow!

Trip's fingers tighten, and I'm mighty sensitive where they're gripped. Slowly, aware a sudden move will cause my prey to run, I ease his hand away and turn. "It's okay, Malcolm. It's okay."

"Ca - Captain."

He's trying to focus on my eyes but he can't; there it is again, a tiny dip, a sideways flicker, the tip of that tongue out against his bottom lip. When I stand Trip does too, and those piercing blue-greys widen. 

Oh, he's interested all right. Hands front, protecting his modesty. Trip's has dropped away to cover himself, but I know it's a little too late for me. 

My best friend's mouth keeps opening but no sound's coming out. His eyes are huge, fastened on my face with a familiar appeal in their aqua depths. _Johnny, get me out of this!_

Isn't this what I've needed from him all these years? Dependence. To be somebody's hero. It's not the way he touches me that's kept me coming back at the tough moments of the last ten years; it's the simple faith he has that somehow Johnny will always save him that's given me belief in myself.

He's a big boy now; all grown up. He deserves more. He needs a partner; an equal. He's subordinated himself to me too long for us to ever have that relationship now. 

Before anything else though, he needs to pick his jaw up off the floor. I'm trying to play it cool and confident; as if this is a perfectly normal situation. Trip hanging his mouth wide enough for a shuttle to land in isn't helping the overall feel.

He and Malcolm - they're made for each other if they'd only see past that whole "chasing girls" thing they used to do. If I could turn back time I'd return us to that first shore leave on Risa. Lock them in a room together. Have somebody steal their clothes.

Maybe that way I wouldn't have found myself in the desperate position I'm in right now.

Trip:

C'mon, Johnny, pull that rabbit out of a hat, willya?

This is so embarrassing. Forget T'Pol yelling about _experiments_ in the mess hall; or being caught in my pants with Her Royal Whininess in the middle of an alien swamp. I'm clutching my own cock - thank God we hadn't gotten further than topless - and staring at the man I've just been drooling over with my best stress toy. Trapped. Horny. 

Helpless. Thank God Johnny's here, he'll get us out of it.

Malcolm's not moving: expect for his mouth, which is flapping like a loose panel and making just about the same weird little creaky noise. He's stunned.

But he's not yelling. He's not storming out in disgust or stammering apologies. Little Trip's giving him a happy wave, and getting to be Slightly Bigger Trip too as he stares and wets his lips. If he's offended, he's hiding it well.

Jon's talking to him, low and soothing: like he's at the paddock gate facing a frightened colt. Listen up, Tucker, pay attention, I can't lose Malcolm as a friend, or... Sonofabitch, that's even worse: is he going to think me and Johnny are in some kind of big romance? Surely he heard - surely he knows we meet like this to gush over him?

He will soon. "You're intrigued, Malcolm, aren't you?" Johnny murmurs, and damned if I'm not seeing a sugar lump in the hand he's holding out. "You never guessed we have these _bonding sessions_ , Trip calls them, where we talk ourselves off. It's a little fun - stress relief - but lately, something's changed. You know what that is, don't you?"

"I - I.."

Oh, yeah. I'm not thinking too clearly here, but whatever we've just been saying, he heard it. He knows we've been fumbling like a pair of first-year cadets in the changing rooms, getting all hot and bothered over him.

And he's not running away.

Hell, it's tough to run with that kind of obstruction sticking up between your thighs. Been there done that. Keep talking, Jon. 

Fuck-buddies. I guess that's true, and I don't want Malcolm getting the wrong idea but he's an old-fashioned kind of guy, and isn't that a little crude from a C.O. to his subordinate? "Come on over here and join us. It feels good to let go sometimes and you want to stay, don't you? You're safe with us."

M

Oh God he's guessed, He knows I'm bi.

How can he? It's not in my Starfleet record - I should know, I accessed the bloody thing from Harris's office and amended what seemed advisable the day I got my second pip; nothing nefarious of course, all sanctioned by the Brass in the name of Starfleet's security. Has he seen me ogling Tucker's arse?

I thought I'd been discreet. I've flirted obediently with a few alien birds; quite enjoyed it, too. But Captain Oblivious has seen through me.

I'm trembling inside. That voice of his is hypnotic. He - they - want me.

I think I'm having what's called an out-of-body experience. It's as if I've disconnected myself; I'm hovering over my own body, watching it shuffle further into the room, guided by their outstretched hands. I'm aware of the cold kiss of gooseflesh; I can see their smiles, hear the deep bass thump of my heartbeat. But it's all happening in a vacuum.

There's no deck beneath my boots. I'm cocooned in cotton wool, only really conscious of the gurgling sensation in my guts; could be indigestion, I suppose, but it feels like excitement. I've certainly never heard of indigestion affecting the genitalia in quite such a dramatic way.

I'm hard. Can't hide it. Don't want to. Commander Tucker - Trip - is salivating. Can't get his eyes above waist-level. Maybe I should follow his lead. Those lovely, rippling torsos are awfully distracting.

Oh, and two erect cocks focus the mind wonderfully, don't they? My mouth's dry; throat's tight. I should run. I still could.

Before I disgrace myself by coming on the spot.

J

He's still torn. How could I have been so blind, thinking that face so impassive? It took Trip to make me see the truth behind those amazing eyes. Fascination, fear, arousal, they're all there, mixed up in a jumble. Surrender or fight? Stay or go? He's torn even while he walks toward us. One wrong move now and it's over. C'mon, Trip, you're the one he's looking to, needing reassurance from. _Do_ something!

As if he hears me his hand comes out, fingers extended until they can brush Malcolm's arm. I'd swear their shared shiver runs right across the gap into me. "Take your shirt off, Handsome," he coos. Malcolm hesitates; it's like he doesn't believe what he just heard. Keep going, Trip. He's listening. He trusts you. 

And he likes you rubbing his arm, bunching up the loose sleeve of his sweater. I wonder if he'll let me do the same?

Yes. He will.

T

Oh yeah. Nice and slow. I'm mesmerized. Maybe he is too, because he's letting us touch him and Malcolm doesn't _do_ casual contact. Not that there's anything casual about the way we're fondling his arms, checking out those lean, sinewy muscles. I've never found the _Brick Shithouse_ look attractive, but give me slender strength and I'm in heaven. Malcolm's got plenty of that, in all the right departments.

He's wary; he might still bolt if somebody makes a sudden move. I can see Johnny smiling over that oh-so-groomed dark hair. He's a patient man. I'm not, but for a reward like Malcolm Reed's trust I'll give it a shot. 

"C'mon darlin', take your shirt off, you'll be more comfortable." Is that my voice? He's staring at me, so I'm guessing the answer's yes, however rough it sounds. "You're getting a free show here but you've gotta give a little back. Want some help with those buttons?"

He wets his lips a lot, but not usually like that; a full, slow circuit that takes forever and sets off echoes way down inside my pants, as if I can already feel the touch where I really want it. Jon's not adventurous: he likes the hand sometimes - the talk more often - but the mouth's off-limits wherever I'd like to put it. I figure Malcolm - if he doesn't run out of here screaming anytime in the next five minutes - may be a little more open-minded.

Heck, in my fantasies he's fucking volcanic. Lava flows of passion held in check by that glacial British calm. Even Johnny doesn't know how long I've been getting off on dreams of doing this.

We're moving up on either side of him and this is risky, he could take fright, but his shirt's coming off, sliding down those lean, strong arms, and slipping down between our feet. My skin slides against his; an arm comes around me from the other side, Jon moving in until we're a knot of rubbing torsos and hot, wet breath. I'm feeling tight and needy down below. I want so much more than this.

M

They're both so hairy. So _big_. I feel.... safe, not at all trapped even though I'm rammed between them. Their arms drape over my shoulders and we're moving, writhing, snuggling closer. I can't breathe. I don't care. This feels heavenly.

When Trip slurs again, the words fanning our over my ear as he leans in, it seems almost natural to arch and oush, trying to get myself closer. "Don't know about you guys but mah pants are killin' me here. How about we get rid of them before they damage anything... important?"

J

My cock jumps so hard I can't even croak but my hand needs no cognitive intervention. It's wriggled down between our compressed bodies already, fighting the zipper of my jeans. I knew I should've worn sweats tonight.

Another set of fingers clamp over mine. Glazed grey eyes wander over my face as if he's having trouble focussing. Maybe he is. God knows, I am.

"With your permission, Sir?"

The words are half-mocking, spoken in a growl that goes straight to my balls. It's all I can do to swallow and nod.

T

The look on Jon's face is like nothing I've ever seen; feral, hungry and tender all at once. I can hear the hiss of a zipper being dropped and I want to look down, but I can't. I'm snared. And if I don't get my dick out of these pants soon, my hopes of natural parenting someday are over.

Still, something's wrong. It's what Malcolm's just said. 

"No ranks." Jon's felt it too, and I figure that's not all he's feeling when I hear the rustle of another pair of pants - Malcolm's - hit the deck. "I'm just Jon now, just a man with needs like yours. Trip, you want a hand with that fly?"

Do I ever. Especially when it turns out the hand in question belongs to Malcolm Reed.

M

I suppose this is a bad time to mention anti-fraternisation regs?

Oh. Oh, definitely.

That's my captain's hand, all leathery and hard. Stroking my cock. At least it's remembered it manners. 

All I can see when I peek up are those twinkling bright green eyes. "One helluva salute," he breathes, the words all warm and wet against my forehead. "At ease, Lieutenant."

At ease! Pleasure's bubbling up in my balls. The room's going misty around me. Something velvety-hard throbs in my hand, and I don't think that little squeak came from me. I can't get close enough. Can't process all these feelings. If they weren't holding me up, I'd be on the floor.

Somewhere, a long, long away outside myself, my brain's actually thinking the floor wouldn't be all that bad.

J

Trip's so good at this. I don't have to focus on feeling what he's doing to me; my body reacts, just knowing it's getting what it wants. That's good. It means I can channel all the concentration I have left onto _him_.

He's gorgeous. Wanton. And when his lips pucker up and his smoky eyes connect with mine, all I want to do is bend my neck and kiss the wits out of him.

I don't like kissing guys. For Malcolm, I can make an exception.

They're a lot softer than they look. Like his hair, which is always so _groomed_ , they look firm. Stiff. Unwelcoming. But they're not and now his tongue's hit the roof of my mouth. I'm about to go through the ceiling of my own starship. 

I'm speeding up: I can tell by the friction of his dick in my hand, they way we're bumping, grinding together, all three of us slick with sweat and something more. There's nothing beneath my feet; no humming engines to sound above the raggedy harshness of our breathing. I can't last long. It feels like I've wanted this forever.

T

His tongue. It's got my hypnotised. Well, that and the way he's rubbing my dick, and the way their bodies feel pushing up hard on either side of mine. When he puckers up I've got to kiss him. And now I've tasted him once, I'm going to need another fix. And another.

And some more.

His sigh brushes my tongue and there's someone else there, a pair of full, firm lips nibbling their way across his mouth until they touch mine. Johnny's kissing me.

Kissing the both of us. Malcolm's tongue dips in and out, now licking the corner of my mouth, then gone. Malcolm's body jams itself hard up against me, holding me up one side with Jon on the other. Or are we just one three-backed, six-legged blob of flesh now? Might as well be. My balls are so tight they hurt. Surely this is it. I'm coming.

M

Lips. Hands. Friction. Hot breath. It's all too much, my head's exploding, and it's not the only portion of me with that idea. Trip's loud groan almost drowns Jonathan's sharp barking sounds, must bite my lip, can't howl in orgasmic abandon, oh God, this feels too good!

His cock, so slick and warm, throbs in my hand. Mine, trapped in Jonathan's, follows its lead. I can taste blood on my tongue now, sharp, metallic, erotic. His eyes bore through me. My chest is tight. Can't breathe.

Don't care.

He's coming closer; stooping.

When his mouth covers mine I can't help it.

I come.

J

Beautiful. Both of them are just - beautiful.

I'm coming down as they hit the top, pretty much chewing each other's faces off, jerking, spurting, filling the tiny gap between us with their heat. Who says lack of stamina's a disadvantage?

Me, until now.

At least with one hand on Malcolm's dick and the other arm 'round Trip's shoulders I can help hold them off the floor while they move, the friction of them against my flanks soothing me down off my high. Semen trickles down my trunk - mine, Trip's, Malcolm's, who cares? It feels good. 

Smells good, too. I wish I could tease apart the threads of the overwhelming fragrance of us, identify his, mine, and his. Maybe I could bottle them.

I know that faint whimpering sound: Trip makes it every time he's feeling really good, when he wants to nuzzle into his lover and lose himself there. It usually makes me tense but this time I know he's not interested in me.

It hurts, even if it's not unexpected. I set myself up for this. And I'm glad I did, because otherwise I'd never have known the sweet mewling sound Malcolm makes when he's sated, sleepy and oh, so beautifully relaxed, sagging into my hip. 

Now's the time. If this is going to work I have to act before they're coherent enough to ask questions. Hell, I've seen him in Sickbay: Malcolm Reed can ask questions unconscious!

C'mon, guys." Two heads loll my way at the quiet words, and I've got to admit; whispering in the dark, I sound pretty damn sexy. "We'd better get respectable and get out of here."

"Don't wanna be respectable." That's my Trip, whiney even while he wobbles obediently away in search of his pants. I've got to use one hand keeping Malcolm on his feet - okay, I don't have to, but a guy's got to take his chances when they come - but with the other I can ruffle that sweaty blond hair and feel the ping in my chest when he rubs against my palm like an affectionate cat. There's a light spray of semen on the couch and a sharp tang of man in the air; nothing I can't deal with in the morning, but I'll deadlock the room overnight. Just in case.

Malcolm's moving like a man under deep hypnosis; items of clothing being scooped and placed almost right - he's missed his top buttonhole and his shirt front's all askew. Trip glances over his head, eyebrows raised; all I have to do is smile, and they drop to human levels. That dog-like trust's touching, but - when you think about it - a little creepy, too. Got to wean him off of that dependence.

Sure, Jonathan. Keep using that excuse. 

Someday, maybe you'll even believe it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan puts his plan into action. It's purely altruistic of course...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a change to the order for this final part. And I'm already seeing a sequel...

Trip:

This is what brings me back to Johnny every time. The security. With him around I don't need to think.

"Come on, let's go." His arm comes over my shoulders. The other one's gone around Malcolm, which I only realise when our hips bump as I start stumbling toward the door in Daddy Jon's embrace. 

No. That sounds _wrong_. He's my hero. My big brother.

Like that sounds any better!

Whatever. I'm too high to care right now; and with Malcolm swaying against me like a drunk falling out of the last bar in town I'm staying that way. "Where're we goin' Johnny?"

Dammit. That was whiney. How fucking old am I?

His chin drops onto my shoulder. I can feel his breath all hot and wet against my face and I don't need to look to know he's got that wide-open, dirty grin of his going. "There's a big old bed on E deck," he growls. 

Oh, boy. I hope Malcolm's belly just did the same little flip as mine.

Oops. He's stopped moving. Almost tripped us up. 

Jon cannons in from behind, which is kind of nice seeing as how he's getting active downstairs again, but Malcolm's got his head tilted to the left, his luscious mouth's all pupped and puckered, and there's something I don't like to see in those amazing, expressive eyes. Doubt. Suspicion. Even - maybe - a little fear.

"Captain..."

Gotta stop him saying things like that!

Malcolm:

What was I about to say?

God knows. I heard myself use that blasted title but then Trip decided to snog me and - goodbye, train of thought. I can barely remember how to keep my arse off the floor, still less what I was going to say.

"Nobody else lives on E deck." Jonathan's low voice is hypnotic, and oh, I'm so willing to be hypnotised: especially with his hand rubbing small, seductive circles up and down my spine. There's no deck beneath me; no solid walls to the turbolift we're drifting into. My universe is framed by his chest against my back and Trip's flank pressing into mine.

I'm vaguely aware of all the things that should be worrying me - other people, the night crew, unpleasant speculation in the morning. Yet I feel oddly defiant. I don't care.

Well, I probably do. Just not enough.

Oh. Oh. No, I don't care at all!

Jonathan:

Keep him off-balance. I don't need to say it, just give Trip a look when we shuffle into the 'lift and jam that gorgeous lean British body up between us. "Don't leave us now, darlin'," Trip croons, and whatever he's doing with his teeth to Malcolm's left ear, it's having an effect. Maybe if I lick the other side of his neck...

Now our sedate Englishman's not the only one feeling giddy, clawing at his lovers for support. Just the taste of his skin, salty with dried sweat under my tongue, makes my head spin. Starfleet's got to invest in faster elevators. I want them naked. Now.

Easy, Jon. You're not a kid anymore.

Neither are they but they're not letting that stop them. Jesus, Trip, are you trying to extract his tonsils with that tongue or something? 

He's never kissed me like that.

Okay, I know. He's tried and I've pushed him away. I knew Malcolm would be more appreciative.

"C'mon guys, easy, we're almost there." They're so lost in each other they probably don't hear but that's good; just as long as I get them into my quarters before any items of clothing get displaced by those purposeful hands. The door's right opposite I know, but Malcolm's shirt is hanging open, Trip's cock is busting past his downed fly, and I hope to Hell he wasn't wearing that damn black satin _love-pouch_ when we walked into the lounge, because he's definitely not got it now.

A little push from me is enough to send them in the right direction, and it evidently reminds Malcolm they're not alone. Half-lidded eyes dark with the ferocity of a Vulcan storm pierce me and oh God I don't believe this, I'm almost fully up again. 

This is all wrong. I was counting on being beat enough to leave them alone this time.

T

I'm in heaven. Paradise. Wherever it is good little engineers go. I don't know how he's done it but my shirt's already open and my dick's pushed into the finest six-pack in Starfleet, making its appreciation properly known. I'm leaking. Squeaking. His hands are curved around my shoulders, and when he breaks off kissing me I realise why.

It's an old cotton shirt. Well-worn. The kind of thing a guy wears when he's not trying, like I've always worn when Jon gives me one of his casual invitations. And it feels like cold water when it slides between my back and a pair of strong male hands, all the way past my ass and onto the floor. Ow!

The bastard just bit me!

"Malcolm? You mind doin' that again?"

Oh, yeah. The other nipple this time. Then a lick.

That's too much. 

Panic grips me. I can't take this!

"Easy, buddy."

Jon. How could I have forgotten about him.

Malcolm's dick rubs up alongside mine. Forgotten who?

M

Everything's tilting. I'm going to be sick.

Ah. Thank you, Jonathan. The bed.

It's soft. Luxurious. Maybe I'll be a starship captain when I grow up. They really do have marvellous beds.

They're even big enough to fit a Trip in with room left over for a friend.

Not much room, mind. I'm plastered to him like the skin on cold coffee and oh Lord, it's marvellous.

He's all damp skin and that wonderful _hair_ that prickles against me from shoulder to gut. Hands that roam everywhere without so much as a _by-your-leave_ start explosions in my nerve endings wherever they rest. I'm squirming, panting, forcing myself into the tiniest crevices of his body and he - always so generous, Trip - is letting me, moulding me. Wanting me closer. 

Just wanting me.

Pleasure and heat are seeping through my frontside but there's something wrong with my back. It's cold. Can't have that.

Trip whimpers when I drag my mouth away and gives a little buck of the hip that quite derails my train of thought again. Absently I give his cockhead a squeeze, the ooze of his fluid coating my palm. Funny how it excites me yet seems to comfort him. He sighs. Gives a lazy thrust. I could stay here, admiring the way those golden lashes fall against his cheek, forever.

But still there's something missing, and when I crane my neck to look behind I know exactly what it is.

J

His eyes look locked onto mine but I know he's seeing the whole picture. Malcolm always does.

He's taking it all in: all of me that is, stark naked amid a pool of stained clothing with my renewed erection clamped in a trembling hand. I've never got this hard inside an hour of coming before. Not even watching that hardcore movie Trip sneaked past security on Jupiter Station the week before we launched and boy, did that disappoint him. It was two days before he could face me again having come three times in a night to my once.

Malcolm's lips - plump and swollen, all bruised by too much kissing - turn up. "Why don't you bring that over here, Jonathan?" he purrs, raking me down with a look. I've never had gooseflesh break out over my balls before. It's tantalising.

Just like him.

"C'mon, Johnny." Trip's slurring; he's not going to hold out long. The way they're undulating, rocking together with hands clashing in the rush to discover each new spot, I'm not surprised.

I'm drawn by a cosmic force which I'm pretty sure emanates from those fiery grey eyes. The bed creaks beneath my weight; the sheets sigh. My penis wedges itself against the cleft between his buttocks, nuzzling into the crease. "Mmmmm, better," he sighs, arching back to get me closer. 

Trip moans. Guess I'd better throw an arm across the both of them. Keep us all tight.

T

Johnny can't see his face, but I can. Malcolm's disappointed.

He wanted the captain's dick up his pretty ass. I could've told him that's not Jon Archer's style, but if he'd care to roll over, Little Charlie-Boy is plenty ready to blow wherever he'd like it.

Jon's hand claws round my hip, his eyes dark, wide and helpless when they meet mine over Malcolm's head. I'm being pushed hard into the bulkhead but I don't mind; the chill's kind of erotic against my sweaty back and the weight of my two sexy lovers pushing into my chest hurts my heart in just the right way. I'm burning up. I never dreamed he'd be into this but sonofabitch! He really, really is.

And this time he's not even trying to stop himself making all those deep, throaty moans. Hot damn! Was that my name?

M

"Trip!"

Oh God, how long have I waited to howl that name as I shudder, overwhelmed by the friction of a glorious, glorious golden body against mine? I'm on fire, roasting in the tiniest gap between them, Jonathan's mouth scorching my neck, Trip's cock shoved up to mine, moisture seeping from both points, flowing into the molten pool of bliss that once was Malcolm Reed. 

Heat surges down my back, released from Jonathan's mouth as his come spurts up. Now it's up my front from Trip, bucking, howling, both of them clutching over me at each other and it's all just too good, too raw, I'm screaming too, my body liquid, pouring myself into my lovers until we're mingled, a writhing, whimpering, wonderful puddle of human goo. Even my face is wet. 

Am I crying?

Do I care?

J

Sweat. Semen. My sheets are soaked in both. Hiding them in the laundry tomorrow's not going to be easy.

Dammit Jonathan, you're the captain. The quartermaster's hardly going to come asking how you got your linen into such a mess!

I'm still shaking. Or maybe it's Malcolm. Or tremors coming right through him from Trip. That was... intense.

T

I haven't felt this weightless since Travis introduced me to Enterprise's sweet spot. I've got no muscles or bones; I'm just a bag of skin holding six feet something of happy mush. On all sides bar one, I can't even feel the universe around me.

What I _can_ feel - just can't believe - is the solid pressure of a slim, strong body squeezed up to my front. My dream man. Malcolm. His face in my neck, his long, slow breaths heating up my throat. It's a big effort but I manage to flop an arm down over him. I want to hold on. 

Guess I'm scared he'll melt away if I let go.

When Jon shifts - trying to get in off the edge of the bed I'm guessing, even captains don't get that much room - the movement runs straight through Mal and into me. "You okay?"

He sounds throaty. And he's way too loud.

"Never better." The warm air rolling down my chest feels steady. I can't feel it moving but my hand must've come up because that silky stuff is Malcolm's soft hair sliding between my fingers.

Whispering has the right effect. Jon peers over that pretty head, bushy eyebrows disappeared into his hair. "Is he..."

"Sleeping." My heart just about flips over. He's not usually this trusting. We must've really knocked him out. Funny, I figured he'd have more stamina than the both of us with all that working out he does.

Maybe we just took him by surprise. He wouldn't be the only one.

Jon's watching me. It should be making me nervous, but I'm still feeling too fine to care. I know that narrow-eyed look of his. 

"You okay?" I shouldn't be asking. I think he's just come for the second time in a night. I've never known that happen before.

I should be jealous that Malcolm's helped achieve what was beyond me solo even in the first flush of infatuation, when youth and irresponsibility were still on Johnny's side. 

But hell - I could come all over again just from having his boneless, sweaty body stuck on mine.

"Pretty good." Either that's the understatement of the millennium, or there's something going on here I'm not going to like. 

There's a yawn building up behind my ribs. I'm beat. Maybe it can wait until tomorrow. I don't want anything to spoil this perfect moment. 

I can feel my eyes closing; sweet, syrupy lassitude flooding every muscle. Yeah. It can wait while I just cuddle down and sleep beside the men I love.

M

Heaven must feel a lot like this. Being the sticky gel in a sandwich between two magnificent male bodies, arms draped over my trunk and legs tangled up on top of mine. "Trip? You still with me, buddy?"

Moist breath kisses the side of my neck. "Ssshhh! Didn't you hear me, he's sleepin'!"

I wasn't consciously trying to fool them; let's face it, I'm not consciously capable of anything but lying here luxuriating in the luscious feelings they've unleashed through my body. Still it'd be polite, I suppose, to correct the misapprehension.

That would take physical effort. I can't be arsed. 

A leathery hand strokes my flank. Maybe he thinks I'm Porthos. It'd be quite nice to be a dog, actually. All that rubbing and crooning. That, and being able to lick my own penis now and then. I wonder if Trip would mind doing that for me if I promised to return the favour?

"Sorry." Jonathan's voice has quite a different timbre when he whispers. Rougher. Sexier. If I wasn't so fagged out I'd tell him. "Something else, isn't he?"

Oi! I'm still here, you know!

The piqued yelp stays in my head. My mother taught me eavesdroppers never hear good, but I'm intrigued. And too bloody smug to give a flying fuck. 

"Sure is." Now there's another hand in play, the pattern of calluses as unique as a fingerprint. Trip's palm ghosts from shoulder to hip, then in. I can feel my stomach muscles tighten. He obviously doesn't.

Dense. Never found that attractive in a man before. 

When he chuckles it thickens my blood to warm honey, all of it flowing sluggishly to places that really shouldn't be affected again so soon. "All these years... I never thought for a minute he'd be into this."

I take it back. He's an utterly adorable, oblivious bonehead. He's honestly never noticed my salivating over his manly assets in Decon? 

Jonathan's laugh has a different effect, possibly because even in a daze I know _guilt_ when I hear it. My flesh starts to crawl. I'm not going to like this.

"Yes," he says, and the hand on my arm starts to tighten. "I noticed that; like I noticed him staring at your ass in Engineering last week."

Oops. _Busted_ , I think they say.

What a damned shame. But does he mean...

My stomach drops. The lazy spin of my head speeds up like an out-of-control carousel. Can't be sick on the Captain's sheets, Reed. No matter what else you've spilled on them tonight.

"Jon..." There's a dangerous growly edge to that luxuriant Southern drawl that sends a shiver down my spine. If I'm lucky they'll assume that little hiss I let out was a quiet snore. 

Or maybe Trip's too preoccupied to have heard. "You knew he'd be there, didn't you?"

I assume it's a rhetorical question. I already know the answer.

"Easy, buddy." The weight of Jonathan's hand lifts off my arm just before its grip can leave bruising - which I wouldn't want to explain to Phlox in the morning. "Yes, I guess I set it up. But I did it for Malcolm - and for you."

J

"For _me?_ "

He's wide awake now: incredulous and embarrassed, scared his sudden falsetto squeak's going to wake our sleeping beauty. Is it wrong that in stretching to smooth the furrows from his brow I manage to get another feel of the satin skin on Malcolm's shoulder? 

Hell, no! I'm never going to know this thrill again. I may be a masochist, but I'm not crazy. 

"Come on, Trip, you've been sighing over him for - five years?" Even by starlight I know when he's blushing; maybe because he squirms like an eel in the trap every time. "You wouldn't have made a move for yourself, would you?"

"I never thought..."

When he gets all tongue-tied and bashful I remember why I needed him - why I've let him need me for so long. The nostalgic pleasure that washes me almost dissolves my shame. 

Almost.

"So yeah: I set you up." The least I could do. I can't bring myself to say it, so I'll settle for the next-best thing, a stumbling apology for all I couldn't be. "You need something he can give, and I figure you'll be giving him plenty back. I can't..."

There's a softness in his eyes that isn't all down to the universe's glow. "I always knew that, Jon," he whispers. It's his turn to reach out, tracing the contours of my face with such care I know he understands. We'll never touch each other this way again. 

Something snaps deep down in my chest but I've got to bury my regrets. I couldn't meet his needs even back at the start in the first rush of passion. Tonight's confirmed my hunch that Malcolm is as much his match between the sheets as he is on duty, and in life. "Just be good to him. Because if you ever hurt him, I'll make damn sure you pay, you hear me?"

His shudder passes through the slim body between us like it's a lightning rod, swirling into mine. "Yessir," he sighs. Maybe it's involuntary but there's something possessive in the way his arm wraps around our lover's waist. As if he's warning me off.

No need. I want to cry for my loss, but at the same time I'm dancing inside. I guess they'll have some talking to do tomorrow; it may be embarrassing to face my Armoury Officer across the bridge for the next few days. But they'll get through it together, and I've made it possible.

I remember on a field trip to Teotihuacan as a student wondering how the humans chosen for sacrifice felt about their fate. Terrified? Resigned? Or maybe exultant, sure their gruesome death was for a higher cause. That's how I'm feeling right now while Trip snuggles up to the man he loves, cradling that ruffled dark head against his shoulder. "Thanks, Johnny," he slurs. 

I know he's asleep before I can say it, but I go ahead all the same. "You're welcome."

He is. They both are. Tonight's either going to have set in motion a lifelong love affair, or a breakup with the explosive power of a dozen stars going supernova. And if I thought it was the latter, I wouldn't have risked my starship being right at the epicentre of the blast zone.

They'll be okay. Now all I've got to do is set my personal alarm to _vibrate_ and hide it under my share of the pillows. They'll be grateful for my consideration when they wake up here alone.


End file.
